


No Enemies

by RimauSuaLay



Category: Alex Rider - Horowitz
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-21
Updated: 2010-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-08 04:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RimauSuaLay/pseuds/RimauSuaLay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sad bastard walks into the bar and has a drink with a ghost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Enemies

**Author's Note:**

> More or less movie canon. Big thanks to Wolfsbride for the prompt and the beta. Fic deals with the idea of death and mentions vague suicidal thoughts, though it's definitely not a death fic.

The bartender glances at Alex from the distance. Alex can see it clearly even through the liquor fumes, he's not that far gone, but he doesn't pay any attention to the man's scrutiny. It's not the kind of place where you need manners or decorum to be served. All you need is money and the willingness to spend it.

Alex has both.

He raises the small glass to his lips and swallows the clear liquid before banging it back down on the counter. "Hit me again." Watching as the bartender fills his glass back to the brim, he wonders if he should tell him to just leave the bottle. He's already made his way through a respectable portion of it.

But that takes more planning than he really wants to do now. He just wants to sit here, to tell the man to hit him again and again and again until they can't even pretend to understand his slur. No plans beyond that.

Not the smartest of moves, but he's so damn sick of planning right now. Drunken men need no plans.

Neither do dead men.

"Hit me again."

When the bartender hesitates, Alex pulls a folded bill from his pocket and slams it down on the counter. There is no hesitation after that.

There's been an empty seat to his right ever since he entered the bar and headed to the far end of the counter, seating himself firmly against the wall. It's a busy little bar, but the seat next to him has been vacant for over an hour now. Alex decides he likes this sorry excuse for an Eastern European country, and this stinking hellhole of a town. The booze is plentiful, and the people around here have the good sense to leave him the hell alone.

Of course as soon as he says that, he hears the sound of the stool being pulled back, scraping against the floor. He contemplates glaring, or maybe a muttered, "_Fuck off_." In the end he just drains his glass again.

No use making enemies tonight. God knows he has plenty of those already.

The bartender saunters closer again, bottle at ready, and after pouring Alex another one without being asked, he turns to whoever made the bad decision to sit next to him.

"Leave the bottle," a man says softly.

Alex tenses for just a second, because the voice sounds so familiar, and a year ago, he would have turned around to stare at whoever it was, convinced he would see icy blue eyes and red hair and then he would be hit by a mixture of disappointment and anger when he realized it was just some ordinary fellow.

He doesn't look. He hasn't looked for a while now.

Playing with his glass for a moment, Alex stares at the counter. There are no answers in the glass or in the smooth wooden surface. It's a good thing he's not looking for answers.

What he's looking for is oblivion, one way or the other. It's too late for illumination or redemption or any other imaginary things they spoon-feed hapless idiots who join the service. Like honor. He chuckles a little at that word and raises his glass. His hand is shaking a little as he slams it back down on the counter, as empty as he feels inside.

He looks up to signal the bartender, but then there's a bottle hovering over his glass, filling it again.

He doesn't want to, but his mouth forms the words without a conscious effort. "Thank you."

The sound the man next to him makes is between a harrumph and a snort.

Alex is grateful. He doesn't want to pretend to be civil beyond what's been natural to him like breathing. His education shows in the most inappropriate places, in words, in manners. Any other day, it would make him laugh.

Not today.

"Today I am become death," he mutters quietly as he raises the glass again.

"Hardly the destroyer of nations, Alex."

Funny, how after countless of shots, he can still feel stone cold sober in a matter of seconds. Alex freezes, holding the glass mere inches from his lips, and then he turns his head slightly, looking at the man next to him.

There is amusement in the icy blue eyes. "Though I do like the melodramatic effort. Quoting Oppenheimer and drinking vodka? Very poetic."

So not sober after all. Probably past the point of alcohol poisoning. "You're dead."

"Of course I am." The twitch of lips shows what the man is thinking about that.

Alex decides to finish his drink, closing his eyes for a moment as he swallows. When he opens them again, he is still staring at Yassen Gregorovich's smiling face. "The question is, why am I hallucinating of you of all people?"

"Maybe it's not a hallucination," Yassen offers. "Maybe I'm real."

"Right." Now Alex is being sarcastic at his own hallucination. This would make the guys at the psych department have a field day. Not that he'll ever tell them about this evening. Right now, he's inclined to stay here in this rat hole and drink himself to an early grave.

Yassen takes a sip from his own glass. "Or maybe I'm your guardian angel."

That makes Alex laugh out loud. It's hilarious, and yet so very appropriate right now. "You know, I could almost believe that. At least you're exactly what I deserve." He raises his empty glass to salute the impossibility next to him, and then frowns at it. It's bad luck to do that, right?

Like he cares.

"Another drink?"

"Yes, please." Alex holds out the glass. "You know, as imaginary people go, you're not that bad." He nods solemnly. "As long as the drinks are real, you can stay."

Having Yassen Gregorovich sit here with him is actually comforting. Two cold killers sitting side by side in a bar, drinking vodka. It's almost like the beginning of a joke. A disillusioned British agent walks into a bar. No, a tired man walks into a bar. A stupid fucking moron with the IQ of a genius and the actual brain the size of a peanut believes his lying superiors and becomes the very thing he despises the most and then hides in a bottle.

A sad bastard walks into the bar and has a drink with a ghost. Not a very good joke after all.

"No, it is not a good joke."

Alex looks at Yassen again. "Well at least that proves you're a figment of my very twisted imagination. You can read my thoughts. Not real." He shakes his head. "Too bad."

"Or maybe you ramble your thoughts out loud when you have drunk half a bottle of vodka," Yassen suggests, his lips curled into a smile.

"I am a professional." Alex enunciates every word very carefully. "I do not make mistakes."

Yassen lets out another snort.

Yeah. "I'm a professional killer now, you know?" Something they have in common. "It wasn't enough to be good at the other stuff. Spying. Stuff. They kept pushing and I wanted to be better and now I am. Better at my fucking job."

This has to be the definition of irony. Telling the ghost of Yassen Gregorovich that he'd been right all those years ago when he'd told him to just walk away and go back to school. He should have listened to him. He could be leaving Oxford now. He could have a life. Instead he gets paid for taking other people's lives. Selling his soul for the queen and the country.

Yassen sighs. "I know."

"You here to tell me you told me so? Because if you are, you most certainly have a free pass to do so." Alex spreads his arms, as if making himself an easy target. "Go ahead."

"I think such a comment would just make you tell me to go to hell."

That is the saddest thing Alex has ever heard. "No. I don't think I want you in hell." He reaches out his hand, and surprisingly when it hits Yassen's arm, there is actual warmth underneath his touch, a solid thing for him to grasp. "Though if you're in hell, you'd better save a seat for me. Will be joining you sooner or later." He squeezes Yassen's arm. "Probably sooner."

"Never did picture you for a maudlin drunk," Yassen says, drawling out the words.

"I. Am not. Drunk." Clipped. Arrogant. Stiff upper lip and all that crap. Alex sneers at Yassen for a moment longer before smiling at him. "And I'm not maudlin. Right now, eternity in hell with you doesn't sound that bad. Beats my life, any time."

Yassen nods. "I can imagine."

Alex isn't surprised Yassen would say that. "Yeah." He looks mournfully into his empty glass. "You did tell me so."

"I'm not here to mock your choices, Alex."

Even that's a sort of a disappointment. Alex lets go of Yassen's arm and pulls back a little. "Then why _are_ you here? If you're not just a drunken dream, then what? The ghost of Christmas past visiting me this lovely March evening? Here to tell me I have to change my ways to be saved? Newsflash, _tovarich_. It's too late for that."

"It's never too late for that, Alex." Something dangerous flashes in Yassen's eyes. "But first you need to want to stop."

Alex stares at Yassen, the ghost, whatever. "Did you want to stop?"

"Yes."

That makes it worse somehow; because Alex can admire a man who doesn't want to do the things he's paid for. Someone who followed his superiors across the line of decency and then chose not to follow anymore. Such a simple thing what he wants, to stop, to get out of this mess, and maybe the only solution is to grab his gun and point the barrel right between his own eyes.

"So I died," Yassen says. "No one comes looking for dead assassins, just like no one comes looking for dead agents. Once you die, you're free, but only if you want to be."

Alex thinks about it, the intensity in the blue eyes. He thinks back to this afternoon, when he'd finally tracked down his target, when he'd gone through the motions drilled into him without hesitation so that the movements from the door, across the floor, were a blur of action that came to a perfect stop only when he heard the man's neck snap, when he stood by a body. He thinks about the pleased tone from the Controller coming through his earpiece. He thinks about the way his hands only started shaking when he ordered his first drink.

Now here is his own personal angel of death. How appropriate that he makes oblivion sound so good.

"I want to be," he sighs, knowing it's the most honest thing he's said in ages. "I don't want to do this anymore."

He doesn't have anything to go back to. Staying with the agency has already put him on a path his friends didn't want to travel, but what he did today made sure he couldn't even pretend to go back to the imitation of normalcy. He can try, he can go home and lie to those who call him, lie to Jack, unable to even meet the hurt look in her eyes. He can try to pretend it's his life, but that'll only last until he gets his next orders.

He's gone too far to refuse a mission; he's simply too good at what he does. Refusal would be followed by something worse than death. Maybe this is the best way out, this way those who still remember him, those who want to remember, will think of him fondly. They will be safe, and he will finally have peace.

Yassen is smiling again, and it's an oddly gentle expression. "Then you come with me and don't look back."

"Yes."

Alex grabs a couple of more bills, and puts them on the counter without counting. There's enough there to pay for a barrel of booze. He doesn't care.

He doesn't know what to expect; the earth to open and swallow him, the skies raining fire and brimstone. It's definitely far less impressive to just stumble across the bar, following Yassen out. It's raining outside, but it's a shockingly cold mist of water instead of a sign of hell, and Alex raises his face up, letting it wash some of the confusion away.

"Here," Yassen says softly, and moves away from him, a couple of quick steps taking him into an alley. He disappears into the shadows like he's nothing but a spectre.

Alex rushes after him, almost tripping over his own feet. "No!" Please. "Don't go!" He turns the corner clumsily, weighed by desperation and more alcohol than he's had in ages. A man like him never drank like this if he wanted to keep on living.

Hands grab him and pull him away from the street; a strong body presses him against the wall. Alex tenses, instinct overriding the drunken haze for just a moment, and then he lets his body relax again. Yassen is still here, still a solid form right there in front of him, and he doesn't mind being manhandled like this. It's been a long time since he welcomed anyone's touch.

He wonders if he's already dead and just doesn't know it.

Yassen holds a hand against his chest, holding him in place while reaching into his own pocket for something, and Alex doesn't flinch away. Angel of death, angel of mercy, and whether it's a gun or a syringe, he rather thinks he'll welcome it. He knows Yassen is a professional too, so it will be quick and painless and irreversible.

He thinks he ought to thank Yassen.

"Hold still," comes a whisper, and then Yassen moves a small piece of plastic across his body. A faint green light appears on the gadget when it passes his pocket, his neck, his belt. "Tracking devices. Take them off."

Mutely, Alex digs out his cell phone before yanking off the innocent looking necklace holding his earpiece, and then fumbles with his belt buckle until it unclasps. He isn't surprised that there is something in the belt that activated the scanner; he's always known old man Blunt's wanted to keep close tabs on his agents. The only surprise is that there aren't more bugs on his person. Just in case, he removes his watch as well and hands them all to Yassen, shiver running down his spine.

Yassen lets his stuff drop into a pile on the cobblestones and it's like a ritual, leaving behind everything that ground him.

He still has his gun, his wallet. He doesn't give a damn about either. "Yassen." Somehow he's always known it would come to this, that his one time enemy, overall savior would be here with him when it all ends. He thinks he's dreamed of this; of all the regrets he carries with him, this used to be the biggest.

"Alex?"

Alex still doesn't know how this will end, but he's willing to bet it's better than anything he's ever hoped for. He does know he has this moment between one breath and the oblivion. He watches Yassen pocket his device, blinks at the rain running down and clinging on his lashes, and he has no choice but to lean forward.

His lips brush against Yassen's unerringly. It's a soft kiss, a gentle one, and he murmurs against Yassen's lips, "Always wanted this. Always wished I'd had the guts to do this before you died. Glad I could do it now." Before the end. His happy ending.

"Ah," Yassen sighs, like this explains all the mysteries of the world. He presses closer to Alex, his body hard angles against his, warm in the cool rain.

Alex closes his eyes and holds on, grunting at the feeling of Yassen's mouth on his, a hand touching his cheek. He spreads his legs a little, and Yassen shifts against him, one thigh pressing between his, and he doesn't care if they're behind a bar, where anyone can see him, the worst mistake an agent could do. He doesn't want to live his miserable life anymore, yet this makes him more alive than he's felt in years.

"Alex," Yassen mutters, slowly grinding his hips against his, and then stilling completely. His breath comes out in shallow gasps. "Not here. Not now."

Stupid with need and something else, Alex _whines_ out, "No!" Not another perfect thing that is offered to him only to be taken away.

Yassen steps back, putting some space between them. "Alex, I can take you to a hotel for the night if you want. We can do this and then you can go back and think this was all a drunken dream. But if you really want out, want to leave it all, your things, your life, your missions, you come with me now and Alex Rider dies tonight. And you never look back."

It's the rain or the hard stone against his back, or the adrenaline rush still pumping through his veins, his whole body tingling, but Alex holds onto some sanity over desperation and really looks at Yassen Gregorovich. He's so impossibly real with his red hair plastered wet against his forehead. "You're really here."

"Yes, Alex."

He must be out of his bloody mind, completely bonkers, but here he is, and there's no such thing as ghosts. His own imagination has never produced anything like this, It can't be real, it _can't_, but if he had one wish, this would be it, and not just a quick fuck with someone he thought he'd lost forever. "You came for me. You looked back."

It sounds like he's trying to argue, but at the same time he's nodding. He ignores the slight twinge of his conscience, the echo of all the things he's been taught. He is needed, to protect his country that doesn't care, to follow orders that come from men who feel no compassion. He's been lost in the training, too exhausted to even imagine a way out, but now that he is handed one, he wants it more desperately than anything.

Yassen smiles. "Russian sentimentality." He adjusts his jacket a little. "I never could forget you either."

God, that brings back memories, of the simple child Alex was just a few years ago, of the blacks and whites and nothing in betweens. He reaches out with his hand again, wondering, and Yassen grabs it in a strong grip, holding him steady and firm.

Alex looks down at their hands. The touch is still real. "You let me think you were dead." It's almost an accusation.

"But I am. I'm as dead as a man can be, with no obligations." There is quiet confidence in Yassen's voice. "Only the memories he chooses to take with him."

That sounds perfect. Alex is glad Yassen is holding his hand so tight; it stops him from noticing how he's trembling. "Yeah. No missions, no enemies."

"No enemies."

Alex smiles a slightly wobbly smile. He wants to tell Yassen so much; that so many things have changed, while too many things remain the same. He doesn't have to ask if Yassen knows what he did today, because the answer's pretty obvious, and he doesn't think he needs to ask where Yassen's been all this time. He's sure he'll find out pretty soon.

Trust might be the biggest mistake in this job, just ahead of hope, but he feels a surge of both.

This isn't what he deserves, because men like he shouldn't get a break like this. He's not stupid enough to ignore this, not drunk enough to interpret it as anything but what it really is; his second chance, an illusion turned to reality. A chance to find some solace. Maybe a chance to build a life.

It's not even ironic that he's about to die, to be just another sealed file in the agency archives. A funeral with an empty coffin, and those few he'll leave behind will have the chance to mourn him in peace and then go on with their lives.

He is a trained agent, used to making decisions under pressure. This time he doubts he'll ever regret this.

"Okay. No looking back." He squeezes Yassen's hand again. "Lead the way."


End file.
